


In the Palm of His Hand

by little_abyss



Series: Nights like Whirlwind [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathing/Washing, Break Up, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, One Night Stands, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 18:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7519294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hawke breaks up with Isabela, Varric is there for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Palm of His Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snarry_splitpea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarry_splitpea/gifts).



> Snaz, my darling, you had everything to do with the wonderful mental imagery which caused the shower scene in this, and absolutely nothing to do with how fucking sad and fraught it turned out. It even made my shrivelled husk of a heart go "aw" a little bit at the end there. Meh, how dare. Anyway, I super love you, you beautiful creature; you are a marvel, and I hope that this small thing goes some way to saying 'thank you' for all your support and sharing of *ahem* imagery.

There is a scratching sound, and then the doorbell goes.  Varric blinks, then darts his eyes to the corner of the screen - the little numbers flash at him, showing him that it is just past one AM.  There is a trademark barrage of electronic chimes, and he smiles; only one person rings the doorbell like that.  He sniffs and rises, leaving his cold coffee and quarter-finished article behind him at the desk.  

 

“Varric,” the voice whines plaintively from behind the front door as he walks the corridor toward it.  Varric frowns.  Hawke’s voice sounds pitiable.   _ Shit, _ he thinks to himself,  _ It’s Bethany,  _ and he hurries a little faster, calling, “I’m coming, Hawke.”  There is a noise something like a sob behind the door, and then Varric is pulling it open, putting on the stoop light as he does.  The sight before him sends him reeling - here is Hawke, standing with one hand on the door jamb, the other over his eyes.  His shirt hangs loose, and he smells as if he has been drinking.  Varric looks him over worriedly, and then Hawke takes his hand from over his eyes and runs it through his dark hair.  “Var,” he says, and then looks at Varric with eyes which are red-rimmed and raw looking -  _ Holy Maker, he’s been crying? _ Varric has time to think before Hawke tells him, without preamble, “She’s left me.”

 

Varric grimaces - this isn’t new.  He raises an eyebrow, then mentally rocks back, distancing himself from what had danced to the top of his mind to say.  They’d always been pretty toxic together, Hawke and Isabela; not exactly a match made in the Golden City.  Too headstrong, by far, each with their own set of internalised rules which the other seemed intent on testing.  He’s wordless for a moment, for once in his life, and feels outrage flame into his chest in the defence of his friend.  But Hawke looks so lost, so bereft, that he swallows it, shakes his head and tells Hawke, “C’mon.  Get in here.”

 

There had never been anything between him and Hawke, aside from friendship.  And Varric thought he’d learned to be content with that, that it was enough to have Hawke’s trust, his friendship.  Because Maker knows, he can’t handle more rejection, and it’s safer, better, just not to ask.  Not humans.  And certainly not humans like Hawke - witty, brash, the kind of lazy beauty and cocksure attitude that Varric always found particularly appealing.  He is sharp, and brittle, and bright, and vicious - dangerous, in other words.  Not a man that one would easily recover from a rejection from; not one who would keep an offer secret, either.  And while he can reason this by day, in his sleep, things are quite different.  In his sleep, Hawke dissolves under his hands, mewling, gentle.  In his dreams, they whisper secrets into open mouths, hot beneath covers, soft shift of muscle under skin, hands smoothed over warm flesh.  Varric flinches a little, under the sudden onslaught of these remembered visions, and shrugs to cover it, handing Hawke a beer, nudging his head with it.  Hawke looks up, takes the bottle, but does not drink.  Varric seats himself on the edge of the sofa and sighs, looking at Hawke for an instant before turning his gaze to the floor and asking, “Wanna talk about it?”

 

Hawke shakes his head and puts the beer bottle down, putting his forehead against his palms again, elbows balanced on his knees.  “Thought she was it, Var.  Thought that she wanted me, that it might work, in spite of everything.  But she just…”  Hawke rubs a hand tiredly over his eyes shrugs.  “Told me it’s not me, it’s her.  She needs some space.”  His lip quivers and he looks as if he’s holding his breath.  Then all of a sudden, an internal dam bursts, and a loud sob escapes him, his face crumpling.  “Var,” Hawke wails, and his hands go to his hair, clutching the dark locks, “What am I gonna do?  I don’t wanna go home, I don’t wanna even look at… at…”  

“Hawke, shhh, Hawke,” Varric says, panicked.  He’s never seen Hawke like this before.  He hears his phone vibrate on the table next to him, but ignores it.  Hawke needs him.  He puts down his beer, then raises his arm, meaning only to pat Hawke on the shoulder, when Hawke turns suddenly and collapses onto his chest, sobbing.  Varric’s heartrate picks up, and he frowns, then pats Hawke on the back, slowly, cautiously.  “Hey,” he soothes, hardly aware of what he is saying, “Hey, you know you can stay here, right?  You’re here now.  It’s gonna be okay, Hawke.”  Hawke’s hands tighten on his back, and his sobs continue, Varric can feel tears seeping through the cotton of his t-shirt, and he looks at the ceiling, praying for strength.  He licks his lips and repeats, “You’re here now.”

 

Eventually, Hawke’s sobs taper off to sniffles, and he sighs, still clinging to Varric.  Varric shifts awkwardly, his left leg all pins and needles now, and pushes Hawke gently away.  Hawke resists, laying his head on Varric’s shoulder, and the shift in position is enough to alleviate some of the physical discomfort, but none of the awkwardness Varric feels.  Truth is, it’s stupid, completely inappropriate, but… he’s getting kind of hard.  He sighs, shifts his hips, and grimaces.  To take his mind off the potentially terrible situation he’s in, he shifts his hand from Hawke’s back, and takes up his phone.   _ Do u no where H is?  Was at Hanged Man, Izzy came in.  They broke up,  _ reads the first message - the second only,  _ wtf are u?  we r looking 4 hawke! is he with u?   _ The first message is from Anders - the second is from Aveline.  He texts back a quick reply to both:  _ He’s here.  Stayin with me.  Don’t worry _ . He sighs, putting the phone back on the shelf.  “Hawke,” he says tentatively, and sighs.  For a moment, nothing happens.  And then Hawke looks up.

 

His eyes are red-rimmed, swollen, but defiant.  “Var,” he says, and his voice is husky, thick.  Time seems to stop as Varric looks into those black eyes, the vibrant depth in them sending an electric shiver through him; and then Hawke’s mouth is on his, soft, needy, desperate, the taste of cheap beer in his mouth with Hawke’s tongue.  For a moment, he struggles, then Hawke’s hands are on his waist, on his chest, then roaming under his shirt, in his hair, oh Maker, no this is wrong, it’s wrong that it should feel so  _ right _ , and he kisses back, Hawke’s hands on his body, drawing nails down his back.  He cannot help the moan and gasp he gives as the pain of the scratches flares and fades, and it seems to turn Hawke on even more.  He pushes into Varric, pushing him backward onto the sofa, and Varric goes willingly enough, moving the leg he’d had tucked up under himself around Hawke’s hips.  Maker, oh no, oh  _ yes _ , he can feel Hawke there, Hawke’s hips moving against his own and his cock throbs with need, with want.  This is stupid, so fucking stupid, but Varric wants it, wants  _ him _ .  But too soon, all too soon, Hawke is pulling away.  They don’t say anything for a moment, and then before Varric can apologise for something he had no hand in, Hawke is asking, “Come on.  Come on, you wanna?  Var, please… I just…”

 

Varric looks down at his hands, one on Hawke’s thigh, the other on his arm, feels the pleasant buzz in his lips from Hawkes rough kisses.  He tries to will his body back from making this choice for him, but the years of longing are too much, almost too much and he says, “Hawke, you’re drunk.  You’re really drunk.  And I’m…”

What?  Nervous?  Undoubtedly.  Afraid?  Yeah, that too.  But he knows what he wants, he always knows, and he bites his lip.  He shakes his head  _ no _ , then takes a deep breath.  “At least… at least have a shower.  I’ll make coffee and you can…”

“No.  No, Var, I know I seem it, but…”

“Hawke,” Varric laughs, and swallows.  “Come on.  Humour me, huh?”

 

But those dark eyes are wounded, serious, and Varric’s heart sinks at the thought that the offer won’t come again.  Hawke moves off him, reluctantly sliding off the sofa to stand.  Varric’s eyes linger, a moment too long, on Hawke’s cock, limned under the fly of his jeans, and Hawke smirks and palms it, adjusting himself.  He arches an eyebrow, but says nothing, as Varric looks away and rubs his neck.  “Right,” he says awkwardly, and moves off the sofa himself, walking quickly to the stairs, leading the way to the bathroom.

 

-|||-

 

The steam curls under the closed door, and faintly, Varric thinks he hears his name.  He frowns, putting his hand on the door handle.  “Yeah?” he asks loudly through the wood, putting his face close to the tiny gap.  But the sound is still muffled, and so he opens the door slightly, repeating the word.  “Var?  Can you come in for a sec?” Hawke’s voice, sounding strange, echoing in the small, badly lit bathroom.  Varric frowns again, then takes a deep breath.  He enters, eyes on the floor, unconscious of the prickle of sweat under his arms, the shift of heat deep in the pit of his stomach.  “Var,” Hawke’s voice again, and he sounds short of breath, slightly desperate, “Var, look at me.”

 

Against his better judgement, Varric looks up.  And oh, there he is, his skin all running with water, dark hair plastered to his chest as he lazily tugs on his cock, one hand on the perspex shower frame.  His cock is dark, fully hard, moving gently as Hawke pulls at it, the rhythm slow, maddening, the curl of fingers, the way the foreskin rides up a little over the head, Varric is wordless for a moment as he stares.  His throat feels dry, his mind a blank as Hawke toys with himself, the water continuing to stream down his chest.

 

When Hawke speaks, only then is Varric able to tear his eyes away.  “If you want me,” Hawke says, his voice low, almost a growl, “If you want me Var, I’m yours.  I’ll give you anything you want.  You wanna fuck my mouth, Var?  You wanna make me take your thick cock?  Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.  I’ll do it, Var.”

_ I want you to love me _ ,  _ love me like I love you _ .  But instead, he snorts.  “Still pissed,” he says, too loudly in the small space, “Come on, big guy, lets get you…”

But Hawke smirks and shakes his head, keeping the rhythm up with his hand, “Nuh,” he says, and he sounds breathless, “I’m not drunk, not any more.  Come  _ on _ , Var, I’ve seen the way you look at me.  You want me.  Is it so hard to imagine I might want you back?  How many times have I thought about that cock,  _ your _ cock, what it might feel like inside me.  What you sound like when you come, what you taste like.  Fuck, Varric, come on, I want you, you want me… what’s so hard about that?”  He chuckles, and arches an eyebrow, then reaches behind himself and flips off the shower, sliding the door open.  In the sudden quiet, the lust in Hawke’s voice is almost enough to drive Varric over the cliff as he says, “Apart from the obvious, of course.”

 

Sense is rapidly deserting him.  Something in his chest constricts, and then he is fumbling at the buttons of his shirt, mouth still dry, stomach in knots.   _ No, no _ , some part of him moans, but then he is stepping forward, opening his fly as he does, pushing his jeans off his hips as he goes.  He stumbles a little as his jeans come down awkwardly, tangling at his calves, and then Hawke is there, Hawke’s strong hands underneath his arms.  He snorts, a brief flash of how he imagines Isabela undresses suddenly occurring to him - deliberate, sensual, controlled.  Varric feels his own control slipping away from him at an almost alarming rate, but Hawke’s right; he wants this.  Hawke is kneeling on the floor of the shower stall, smooth wet skin warm under Varric’s hands now, the freckles on his shoulders under Varric’s lips, and he moans as Hawke’s hand slides over his hip and onto his cock.

 

He can hardly breathe - Hawke works his hand quickly, and Varric gasps, hands tightening on Hawke’s arms as he feels his cock twitch and begin to stiffen in the other man’s grip.  Hawke licks his neck, bites his earlobe gently, then chuckles again.  “Do me, Var, touch me,” he croons into Varric’s ear, and then as Varric slides his hands up Hawke’s chest, he whispers, “What do you want?”

 

“Just you,” is all Varric can manage for a time, so subsumed under the tidal wave of lust he has become.  It is overwhelming, this; the slide of his hands on Hawke’s body, the way the wet flesh feels under his hands - silken, the rapidly cooling water making Hawke’s skin shudder and go to gooseflesh.  Varric pants, his thumb working restlessly over the point of Hawke’s hip, and finally, he is able to make an effort and step away.  He stands there, facing Hawke, both of them breathing hard.  “Dry off,” Varric says, and his voice sounds strange, even to himself.  “Dry off, come to bed.”

 

Something flickers in Hawke’s face; satisfaction, smugness.  Slowly, he rises from his kneeling position on the tiled floor of the shower, and takes the towel which Varric hands him.  Now that the decision is all but made, Varric still does not know how he feels about it.  His stomach clenches, he feels drawn tight, pulled in two directions at once.   _ This changes everything _ , he thinks and then, hard on the heels of that thought comes  _ how could it?  You’ll mean nothing to him in the morning _ .  The thought is like a slap in the face.  He looks at the floor, suddenly ashamed of himself, and covers himself with his hands.  “Hawke,” he says, shaking his head, “Hawke, this is…”

 

He feels Hawke kneel again before him, and looks up from the floor into those dark eyes once more.   _ Beautiful _ , he thinks, and sniffs, narrowing his eyes.  “This is what, Var?”  His eyes are wide, and he lifts his eyebrows, strokes a hand over Varric’s elbow, the touch ghostly.  Varric swallows, and any instinct he had for self-preservation flutters away at the look in those beautiful dark eyes.  “Nothing,” he tells Hawke, and steps forward, one hand sliding up Hawke’s neck, marvelling at the darkness of the stubble, it’s roughness under his palm.  “Nothing,” he repeats, his lips a breath away from Hawke’s mouth; and they kiss, and the word echoes and crashes within him,  _ nothing, nothing _ \- even as the kiss turns sloppy, even as Hawke’s hand goes to his cock again, even as they stumble toward his bedroom.

 

Hawke’s mouth is a damp  _ oh! _ in the quarter light; the dim orange of the streetlight outside makes the sweat on his temple, the spit on his lip, makes it all shine like liquid gold.  He is tight around Varric, one hand on Varric’s chest and the other pulling desperately at his cock as he rides Varric, hips rising and falling.  Varric pants, hands on Hawke’s knees, only half listening to the nonsense falling from Hawke’s lips; nonsense about  _ so good _ and  _ beautiful _ and  _ like no-one else _ .  Lies.  All of it, sweet lies, nothing more.  He struggles with it, tries to lose himself in the words, tries to believe them, but instead he only knows better.  But Maker it  _ is _ good; good to watch the way Hawke’s thighs quiver with the effort he is exerting, to know for sure that there is no softness to this man - everything is rushed, blurted out, too much, too soon.  Not like the Hawke he had imagined at all.  His breathing is short, and Hawke pants, hangs his head forward, the motion of his hips becoming quicker now, more sharp.  “More, fuck, more, Var, Maker, you’re so good, so --uh, oh, so-- fuck, fuck,” Hawke curses, and Varric gasps, feeling Hawke’s ass clench around him, the tightening of Hawke’s hand in the curls of hair on his chest.  His mouth drops open again, into that sweet, terrible  _ oh! _ of pleasure, and Varric watches, unable to tear his eyes away from Hawke’s cock as come sketches over his stomach, thick, pearlescent.  It is enough to send him into those depths as well, following Hawke - he knows enough to feel his hands tightening on Hawke’s knees, and then his mind is gone, lost to the deep.  Oh, it is bitter, this - bitter and bright.  He rides into the blankness, there behind his eyes, but all too soon it is dimming, the world coming back as Hawke barks a shaky laugh, and begins to move away.

-|||-

  
A week.  A week of nothing, no contact at all.  Varric goes back to his life, after that night - Hawke goes back to his.  He smiles and nods when Merrill clutches her hands together, eyes shining as she tells him that Isabela and Hawke are together again - so nice, isn’t it, that they could make it up?  Gives you hope for the future, really?  There is an ache, somewhere just below his heart as he tells her, yeah, it sure does, Daisy; hey, do you want another drink?  An ache is easily ignored.  It’s an ache he knows well, feels almost comfortable with, and by the time he sees Hawke, his beautiful dark eyes fixed on Isabela and no-one else, by then, he will have grown used to it.  It is only a matter of time.


End file.
